Becoming Voldemort
by ihaveacrushonyou
Summary: Tom Riddle wasn't always Voldemort, but Voldemort was always Tom Riddle. So how did a teenage boy justify what he planned to do? How could someone truly justify the cause of killing? This isn't the portrait of a killer, it is the portrait of the boy who became a killer. A glimpse into Voldemort's childhood. Oneshot. Beta-edited by biancalovestoread.


**Becoming Voldemort**

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 **Disclaimer: J. owns Harry Potter and I am using the cover of this fanfic from Google Images.**

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Blue eyes, painted with longing for an indefinable entity, reflected the lifeless blanket which domed over London, similar to the wistful war plaguing the minds of many civilians that day. The day was what would have existed as a mark of the beginning of a Summer break, a time for the teachers and the students to retire from a year of painful learning. Yet the schools of London had all been emptied, the streets barely held children and the teachers hid away their books for a time the war would only be a murky memory; a time that may never arrive.

Tom Riddle, however, was feeling as he did every summer. His distaste for the orphanage's meagre meals was evident in his weight loss, his skin became the pasty pale it always did when away from his boarding school, while the nightmares and insomnia had only just begun kicking in. Flashbacks of his childhood in the halls of the orphanage marred with dreams of his worst fears of being isolated-floated in his vision every time he rested his head down for the night. Throughout his childhood, he had been bullied, mocked, and tormented by those he lived with. With a lack of support while growing up, his life's mantra had become "hurt or be hurt," thoughts he revived in his mind over and over, like a cassette player intended to last forever.

When he first discovered magic, it was his survival-his sanctuary-but as time passed, his source of survival had become so simple that it morphed into a ravishing urge for power; a hunger he couldn't satisfy. The more he dealt with magic, the more it consumed him, and the more it engulfed its way to his pride, enhanced his want and turned him into the most optimistic wizard of his age. Upon meeting Dumbledore, his pride had been dampened, his ways criticised and made him realise that he wanted nothing more to do with the rules set out by weak, and flimsy politicians.

He was suddenly pulled out of his reverie with the sound which would highly resemble the wails of a banshee. It was an air raid. All around Tom people rushed in a structured chaos. Ms Cope and one of her assistants were hurriedly carrying the toddlers to the nearest shelters while all the other children grabbed onto each other and rushed for what would be their lives. As he made his way down the stairs as orderly as possible Tom was pushed, shoved and severely bruised-no one took care as to notice who they were rubbing shoulders with. As Tom crossed the street to the closest shelter, his heartbeat quickened.

He hated how these ridiculous and callous muggles could cost him his life, he hated cowering in fear of bombs or fighter planes, and he hated just how much power these people had over him. In some of his best dreams, he imagined revelling in his power, pulling out his wand and showing them just how much of the world they didn't see.

"We have to get Cindy!" a voice cried as soon as Tom had entered the shelter. It was a young girl, about the age of twelve, being held back by Mrs Cope. She had tears running down her face and her grey dress was torn at the edges.

"Whose Cindy?" Tom asked a slender boy that he knew lived at the orphanage.

"Sh-sh-she means Cecilia Foster. The b-blonde girl with the at-tw-twitchy eye-Mrs Cope left her injured in the i-infirmary," the boy, although looking affronted that Tom was speaking to him, replied. Tom's mind spun ferociously at the mention of Cecilia's name. He remembered the twitchy-eyed girl vividly from his childhood. Along with him, she was the one who was bullied the most and when he discovered his magic he always steered clear of her.

Images of the way the tall boys would dangle her body upside-down, cut her with rocks, or tease her about her eye flashed through his head. Maybe it was a sense of shared camaraderie from being bullied by the same people, but whatever it was, Tom Riddle's blood boiled at the mention of how Mrs Cope had betrayed her.

Before he knew what he was doing, before anyone could stop him, Tom struggled past the children and rushed out of the entrance of the shelter just before they sealed it behind him. As Tom made his way down the empty streets, the sirens still blaring, he pulled out his wand-if the ministry couldn't accept his use of magic in such a situation, Wizengamot could all go to hell. He would obliviate them all if he needed to.

Once he found the orphanage, it didn't take him long to locate the infirmary-after all, it was where he was born. Tom had often spent the night there, wondering which bed Merope Gaunt must have taken her last breath in, and why didn't anyone save her? Why was the world so selfish?

"Tom! We have to get to the cellar!" Cecelia's desperate voice cried out. Once his icy blue eyes met her twitching ones, Tom's feet dragged him to her bedside.

"Cecilia, you have to calm down. I can't help you if you don't stop withering like a basilisk," Tom told the girl, while he noticed her injured leg, which he knew he wasn't skilled enough to heal.

"A what?" was all Cecilia could reply. Before either of them could utter a word, the ground below shook and they heard a loud crash in the distance. Cecilia's hands clasped the boy's right one. Tom, too distracted by the thought of which spell he should use, didn't shake her off. His thoughts pooled to everything he had learned. His mind flashed moments in Defence against the Dark Arts class, but all he could remember was how Merrythought continuously hammered on about his own experiences. Suddenly it came to him, perhaps out of a textbook, or from one of the boys in the common room showing off to the girls; it leapt into his mind like a hippogriff finding fresh meat.

"Protego!" the tall boy shouted pulling up his wand, just as the ceiling gave away with fire and debris and another bang resounded. Cecilia had screamed but as she saw the blue dome that surrounded them emitting from Tom's wand, she was rendered speechless.

Several times in his life, Tom wondered why he had saved the girl, and about why the Germans were bombing England, and the English were bombing Germany. The first was a question he would never answer, even to his unprecedented end, but the latter, he would repeat easily. There was no such thing as good or evil, not between muggles and not between wizards, there was only the powerful and those too weak to seek power.

 **The End (The Beginning)**

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 **A/N: Thanks so much if your reading this, I hope you enjoyed it! And lots of beta love for my beta editor,** **biancalovestoread** **. Depending upon the popularity of this, I may choose to write a full chapter book fanfiction.**


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